The desperate do not arrive like armies.
They arrive like weather.
Slow at first.
Unavoidable.
Everywhere at once.
By the third night after the corridor breach, Blood Moon’s outer wards stop flaring in sharp alarms and begin humming instead—under constant pressure from thousands of low-grade ritual prayers layered atop one another like whispered hands against glass.
Jason stands inside the ward chamber, lines of light mapping the barriers in frantic latticework.
“They’re not attacking,” he says grimly. “They’re eroding.”
Zane’s eyes never leave the scrying field where shadows writhe at the forest’s edge.
“Then they’ve learned patience.”
My hand tightens over my belly as the heir stirs restlessly.
“They’re closer tonight,” I whisper. “Not in body. In intent.”
The air feels crowd
